


Wingman

by MykEsprit



Series: Dramione Delectables [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-06 20:55:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14065407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MykEsprit/pseuds/MykEsprit
Summary: With the ball fast approaching, Draco Malfoy reluctantly helps a hopeless Hermione Granger find a date. It gives him more trouble than he thought, and not just because she's terrible at flirting. Dramione, Post-Hogwarts.





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe and all its lovely characters are not mine.

The oppressive heatwave tormented London, even in the wizarding sector.  The Ministry of Magic, despite being charmed to be cool, had succumbed to the beating of the sun.  It was quite uncomfortable to sit in a cubicle and work while one’s shirt stuck gracelessly to one’s body, but Draco Malfoy hadn’t minded.  The sudden heat was a sign of happy times to come: it meant that his birthday was fast approaching.

As he contemplated delightful things, like presents – at the cusp of twenty-five, he still looked forward to getting lots of gifts – and his annual birthday ball, he felt a memo fly into his face.  He unfolded the paper airplane, and saw, in neat script, _Get back to work, you prat!_

He looked up to see his Auror partner grinning impishly at him.

“Daydreaming about diving into your large pile of birthday presents, are you?  Wondering if mummy and daddy are going to give you the Firebolt 3 like you’ve been asking for months?” asked Hermione.

“No, I was just about to decide to which of my house elves I was going to grant their sweet freedom, but now I’ve lost my train of thought,” he replied.  “Oh, well.  Now that we’re on the subject, though, I _do_ expect plenty of good presents, and, yes, that includes from you.”

Hermione scoffed.  “I’m not giving you anything this year, Malfoy.  Last year, you put my present directly to the ‘Donations-to-the-less-fortunate- _slash_ -tinder-for-Floo-fire’ box.”

“You gave me an _ascot_ , Granger.”

“I thought you purebloods liked that poncey stuff?”

Draco rolled his eyes.  “We do like poncey stuff, but only if it’s en vogue.  If you think ascots are still fashionable, I shudder to think what you will show up in when you come to the ball.  You _are_ still coming, right?”

“Yes, I already sent my RSVP to your mother a while ago,” she replied.  “And, as for what I’m wearing, I’m sure that dress I wore to the Ministry Christmas party will be fine, right?”

Draco blanched.  “The black and white checkered dress?  The one with the bell sleeves and the high low skirt?”

“Uh, yeah?  Sure, I guess,” Hermione said, looking confused at those descriptors.

“That is not formal ball attire, Granger,” he lectured.  “You better get another dress, and, for Merlin’s sake, take someone with you to keep you from purchasing another mistake.”

“Well, if you’re going to be a bloody priss about it, why don’t you just come with me, then?”

He let out a dry laugh.  “Granger, Granger.  I think you might be mistaken as to the nature of our relationship.  We’ve been getting along swimmingly as partners for years, and, wand to the head, I will grudgingly admit we’re friends.  But in no way is our friendship on the level of Hair-braiding and Make-overs.”

“So, who should I take with me to go shopping?”

“I don’t know,” he said and gestured carelessly in the air.  “Weasley.”

“It takes a certain amount,” said Hermione, carefully, “of confidence to wear something Ginny would find fashionable.”

“Then take _Weasley_ ,” he said.

“You want me to take fashion advice from a man who thinks the three categories of clothing are ‘Shirts,’ ‘Pants,’ and ‘Other?’” she asked skeptically.

“Well, I’m not about to suggest Potter,” he said.  “Even you have a better fashion instinct than him.”

Hermione glowered silently at him, which is the closest she ever came to giving puppy eyes and a pout.

“Ugh, fine, I’ll go with you for your bloody make-over,” he said, and pointed a finger at her in warning.  “But you’re not braiding my hair.”

ooOOoo

They had wasted half of their lunch hour at Madam Malkin’s, where Draco promptly labeled all the dresses in the shop as either gauche or derivative.  Thus, they hurried over to Twilfitt and Tattings, hoping to find a dress before they returned to work.

He had seen the gold brocade dress on a mannequin as soon as they entered the shop and had ordered her to immediately try it on. Now, Draco meandered aimlessly among the racks, waiting for Hermione to come out of the dressing room.

Hermione coughed politely, and he turned his head.

She stood facing the bank of mirrors, looking at his reflection uncertainly, as he approached her on the dais.

The strapless, corseted dress hugged her torso snuggly, and then fell away into a clean A-line skirt.  The pattern was understated but elegant, with the gold weaved into the dress bringing out the subtle highlights in her hair.

“What do you think?” she asked, shyly.  She moved her long hair to one shoulder, as she usually did when nervous, and he caught a glimpse of a faint, almost-silver line peeking out from above the corset, in between her shoulder blades.  Without thinking, he reached out and traced a finger over the raised flesh.

It had been a while since he’d seen the scar, although he would never forget how it came to be.  It was one of the scariest times of his life.  Not necessarily the day that she was wounded – though the sight of Hermione lying in an exorbitant amount of her own blood gave him nightmares for months – but the days afterward were even worse.  He sat in her hospital room, waiting – hoping – for her to wake up, a heavy stirring in his chest that he couldn’t quite figure out.

He wasn’t good at naming feelings.  Guilt, if he had to guess, about not being fast enough to keep his partner from being hurt.

“Malfoy?” Hermione pulled him out of his reverie, and he glimpsed at the mirror to find a questioning look in her eyes.

Quickly recovering, he switched from gently stroking her skin to roughly swiping at her back as he picked at imaginary hair strands, muttering, “You shed so much hair, Granger.  Are you sure you’re not part muskox?”

She rolled her eyes at him, and he stepped back off the dais.

He glanced, once more, at Hermione in the golden dress.  “It’ll do.”

She flushed brilliantly at him, and he broke eye contact as he said, “Of course, you’ll have to tell your date to wear something to match.”

“My date?” she asked, bewildered.

“Yes, your date,” he said.  “Mother expects all attendees at her functions to be matched, so she automatically gives plus-ones to each guest.  You can’t show up without a date; it will insult her sensibilities.”

Hermione asked hesitantly, “Um, who are you taking?”

Draco caught her gaze once more.  “I don’t know.  Mother usually assigns me one of her odious friends’ equally odious daughters whenever we throw a party.  I’m sure she’s already got one lined up.”

“Oh,” Hermione said, and after a pause, “I don’t suppose you’d want to help me find a date to the ball?”

He scowled at her reflection in the mirror.

ooOOoo

For someone who usually excels at everything she tries, Hermione Granger proved to be an absolute failure when it comes to flirting. 

She would insist on paying for her own drink whenever a man would approach.  She would lecture on current politics instead of complimenting a man’s taste in music or art.  She would tell a man that he was _wrong_ about something, instead of simpering and saying something like, “Oh, that’s so interesting, I never thought of it that way.”

Overall, she was making Draco’s job as her wingman extremely difficult.

It was their third night in a row going to a pub, so they’ve perfected their system and synchronized their movements.  If an attractive-looking man entered the pub, Hermione would go over and try to strike up a conversation.  Draco would then play white rabbit to the greyhounds; he would distract any other woman sitting near said man to give Hermione, as she put it, “a fighting chance.”

He hadn’t minded the first two times they went on their mission, but, tonight, his patience was becoming thin.  If he had to listen to another witch talk about how she followed the Weird Sisters on tour throughout Europe, or how many views her Floo-Tube make-up tutorial has gotten, he was going to bite the bullet and just hire her an escort.

When she struck out with the latest target, she joined him dejectedly at their booth. 

“It’s no use, Malfoy,” she said glumly.  “I’m total bollocks at picking up strange men in a pub.”

Draco was about to gently suggest his escort idea when he glimpsed a familiar figure come through the pub entrance.

“Zabini!  Blaise Zabini!” he yelled, and the tall, raven-haired man turned to look in their direction.

“Malfoy!” he said, smiling as he approached them.  “Hey, mate!  It’s good to see you!”

“You, too,” Draco replied as he stood up and shook his hand.  “I didn’t know you were back from Italy.  How long are you staying?”

“Oh, indefinitely,” Blaise said.  “I’m moving back to England for good.”  He noticed Hermione sitting at the booth and gave Draco an expectant glance.

“Blaise, you may remember Hermione?” he said, by way of introduction.

“Of course,” Blaise said warmly.  “I could never forget the girl who always trounced my scores at Hogwarts.”

Draco gave Hermione a pointed look, and she cleared her throat.

“So, Blaise,” she said.  “Have you kept up with the Wizengamot while you were abroad?  What do you think about the Anti-Troll Bill they’ve been debating this week?”

Draco couldn’t suppress his eye-roll.

“I think it’s a shame,” said Blaise, and he sat with her to discuss the strengths and weaknesses of the bill.  Draco sat across from them, tuning out the tedious conversation, as they seemed too engaged with each other to notice his indifference.

He sighed.  At least, all his hard work as her wingman had actually paid off. 


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the ball fast approaching, Draco Malfoy reluctantly helps a hopeless Hermione Granger find a date. It gives him more trouble than he thought, and not just because she's terrible at flirting. Dramione, Post-Hogwarts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe and all its lovely characters are not mine.

She was humming a tune while filling out a report on her desk.  In the four years they’ve been partners, she never once hummed, sung, or even whistled a song while doing paperwork; it would have been a superfluous expediture of energy that could have been used for meticulous proofreading.

The sound of it – coupled with that far-off look in her eyes as she half-focused on work – grated his ears, and it took vast amounts of control to keep the growl forming in his chest from escaping.

After three more bars of the nameless tune, he had had enough, and he harshly told her so.

"Sorry, Malfoy,” she said.  “Didn’t even realize I was doing it.  It’s just, I’ve got this song stuck in my head since last night, and I forgot what it’s called.  Do you know it?  It goes like—” and she hummed a few more notes.

“I don’t bloody know, Granger, obviously,” he snarked.

Hermione threw her hands up in surrender.  “All right, no need to be rude about it.  I guess you wouldn’t know, as it’s a Muggle song.  I’ll just ask Blaise about it later, I’m sure he remembers.  He’s got such a good ear for music.”

Draco looked at her sharply.  “Remember? Blaise?”

“Yeah, he might know what song it is.  It was one of the songs that came on at the Karaoke bar last night.  Did you know that he’s got a good singing voice?”

He gritted his teeth, feeling the muscles on his jaw tense.  He tore his gaze away from her and returned to writing on the parchment in front of him, saying nonchalantly, “I’ve never heard him sing, but judging from looks alone, I can imagine he sings with a breathy falsetto.”

“No, actually,” Hermione said, her eyes slightly narrowed at him.  “He has a really rich baritone.  You should hear him for yourself.  We’re going again tonight, if you want to—”

“If I want to abuse my ears all night,” Draco cut her off, “I will drop by the Black Lake for kippers with the Selkies.  As it is, I’m not in the mood for that, or for traipsing around Merlin-knows-where all over Muggle London.”

“We wouldn’t be going anywhere far,” she argued.  “We’ll most likely just end up going to the one we went to last night.  That Karaoke bar across from my flat.”

The quill in his hand inexplicably broke in half.  “Bloody defective quill,” he muttered as he cleaned up the ink that smeared on his parchment.

“It might do you some good to come out with us, Malfoy,” she continued, blithely.  “I know you probably think Karaoke bars are too _plebian_ for your tastes, but it’s actually quite fun to put yourself out there in front of total strangers and – hey, where are you going?”

“ _I need to get another bloody quill_ ,” he said through his teeth as he fought to control the heavy feeling in his chest.  He started marching away from his desk.

“Wait, here – I know I’ve got an extra quill somewhere –”

“No, I need to – I…I only like quills fresh from the supply closet,” he finished nonsensically.

 Hermione quirked an eyebrow.  “You like your quills…fresh?”

“Practically still clucking,” he huffed.

“All right,” Hermione said skeptically, but he was already rushing down the hall and didn’t hear her.

ooOOoo

He told himself that he was technically invited, so it’s not weird for him to stand outside of the Karaoke bar at midnight to see what they might be up to. 

He also told himself he is Disillusioned because it just wouldn’t do for a Malfoy to be seen at such a tasteless establishment.

Draco had been loitering outside the bar for twenty minutes when they finally came out, laughing together like two old friends.  She had her head thrown back in merriment, her frizzy brown curls falling haphazardly down her back.  He was leaning his face close to her ear and talking animatedly.  Draco couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he didn’t remember Blaise being _that_ funny that she would be laughing so violently.

They crossed the narrow street to the steps leading up to her flat.  They stood close together, though not touching.

Her face was bright and flushed as she looked up at him.  Draco saw him angle his head down, his mouth forming words, and his arms gesticulating in the direction of her flat.

Draco saw her face take on a thoughtful expression.

Before he knew what he was doing, he found himself suddenly Disapparating away.  He told himself he didn’t care what her response might have been.

ooOOoo

The ballroom at Malfoy Manor was exquisite, as usual.  Crystal chandeliers floated down from the vaulted ceilings, reflecting light and sparkling against the midnight blue ceiling like a sky full of stars.  The cool crystals matched the imposing ice sculptures strategically placed around the ballroom, depicting graceful magical creatures in movement. 

The guests milled elegantly around the room.  The men were dressed in expensive black robes, and most of the women were styled in sophisticated black, stylish blue, or classic ivory.

It was the perfect backdrop for a ball: refined, cultured, and decidedly affluent.

And Draco stood in the middle of it all, mindlessly greeting his guests.  Coincidentally, his chosen spot afforded the best view of all the entrances to the ballroom; he prided himself on being a gracious guest of honor, staying in one place where he was accessible to everyone at the party.

When Hermione entered the room, he immediately spotted her.  Her golden dress was subdued in the soft lighting of the ballroom.  Instead of an ostentatious metallic gleam, she glowed, like candlelight, against the blues and blacks and ivory of the background.

Draco found his feet walk toward her, and his mouth say words to greet her.  “Granger.  You’re here,” he said dumbly.  “Good.”

“Hey, Malfoy,” she said, looking around.  “This place is beautiful.  As always.  Your mother really outdid herself this time.”

“Thank you,” he answered, and turned to stiffly nod at her companion.  “Blaise.”

“Draco, thank you for having us,” Blaise replied.  “And happy birthday.”

“Oh!  Yes, happy birthday, Malfoy,” said Hermione, as she produced a small, gold foil-wrapped package and handed it to him.  “It’s not an ascot this time, I promise.”

“Thank you,” he said again, and he put the present in the pocket of his robes instead of sending it to the large pile of gifts at the corner table.  His ears picked up the strain of the violins, and so, he politely turned to Hermione and said, “Granger, dance with me.”

She only hesitated for a moment, glancing sideways at her date, before she held out her hand to Draco.  He took it and pulled her to the dance floor. 

The tempo was fast and upbeat, perfect for a brisk Viennese waltz.  It gave no room for gazing into each other’s eyes, nor for appreciating the feel of being in the other’s arms.  Instead, Draco was burdened with keeping them both in time with the beat, as she looked down minding her full skirt, face red from exertion and scant oxygen allotted by her corset.

When the dance finally ended, they looked at each other with obvious relief, and laughed.  She didn’t step out of his hold, so he kept his right hand firmly on her back and his left hand holding hers.

“Granger, I –” he started to say, but a voice from behind interrupted him.

“Excuse me,” Blaise said.  “May I have the next dance?”

Draco swallowed his words past the lump in his throat, and he watched as Hermione silently gave him a questioning glance.  Draco disentangled himself from her.

“Of course,” he said.  The lump in his throat seemed to have settled somewhere in the middle of his chest, and he walked away from them without further discourse.

He was suddenly hot, and his chest tight – from the effort of dancing, likely.  He stepped through the French doors to get fresh air in the veranda.  It was blessedly empty of guests.  He took a deep, calming breath.

As he exhaled, his chest felt even worse, and he wondered to himself if this was some strange manifestation of an emotion with which he wasn’t quite familiar.

But by the third breath, the feeling in his chest was sharp and burning.  By the fourth, he was starting to panic, because the pain was making his vision narrow.  By the fifth breath, he was staggering toward the doors before he fell on the ground.

He wasn’t conscious for his sixth and subsequent breaths.

ooOOoo

When he woke up, he was lying in his bed.  He heard a muffled voice say, “Draco?  Are you awake?  Draco, it’s very important that you – that you stay calm.”

He lolled his head side to side, trying to clear his mind.  His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton.  His limbs felt like they were stuffed with lead.  His wings felt like –

Draco bolted up in panic.  He felt the extra weight on his back, and he stumbled to the dressing mirror across the room. 

He was shirtless now – someone must have taken it off when he was passed out.  Two pointed arches, scaly with a silver sheen, reached past his head.  He slowly turned, following the line of the wings to where they protruded from the spine of his shoulder blades.

“What,” rasped Draco, “in the _bloody hell_?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you for reading! Thoughts on this chapter?


	3. Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the ball fast approaching, Draco Malfoy reluctantly helps a hopeless Hermione Granger find a date. It gives him more trouble than he thought, and not just because she's terrible at flirting. Dramione, Post-Hogwarts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe and all its lovely characters are not mine.

“A Veela?!” Draco yelled at his parents, who were in the sitting area of his suite.  “I’m a bloody Veela, and you’re just telling me now, when I’m twenty-five years old?  You couldn’t have told me _any sooner_ that I should expect a bloody set of _wings_ to pop out of my bloody back at any time?”

Narcissa looked terribly chastised as she sat on the divan, but Lucius remained standing, keeping a stern and steady gaze on his son.

They had just finished telling him the sordid secret of the Malfoy men.  Well, one of them, anyway – the one that involved Octavius Malfoy, Draco’s great-grandfather ten times over, and a rather vindictive Veela gypsy.  Something about an unfaithful lover, a broken heart, and jilted Veela pride – and now all Malfoy men were cursed to display any combination of Veela traits, in perpetuity.

“We’re sorry, Draco,” said Narcissa solemnly.  “I suppose it was just our wishful thinking that the curse had been broken, or, perhaps, worn itself out, with you.  Lucius, after all, had shown only the smallest of burdens of the Veela curse.”

“They usually manifest much earlier – mine was evident from birth – and when you reached adulthood without any changes, we thought you were clear of the curse,” Lucius said.  “I should have known it’s just another variation, as it’s never the same between any two Malfoy men.  My father grew a prominent beak whenever he became angry.  My grandfather charmed anyone into a trance when he danced, which is why we Malfoys are so known for our balls.”

Draco sighed and rubbed his temples irritably.  “You should have at least told me to expect _something_.”

He paced to the mirror again, still not quite believing that he sported a spectacular set of wings.  They were silver, the same shade as his irises; he would have thought them impressive, if not for the sight of them grotesquely protruding from his upper back.

“What other burdens might I expect, mother?” he asked, resentfully.

He saw his parents exchange hesitant looks, and Narcissa replied.  “Anything that any Veela might display.  Veela charm, throwing fireballs, a compulsion to find a mate –”

“Mate?” Draco asked, and a vision of Hermione in her golden dress flashed quickly in his mind.

“Yes,” said Lucius.  “An impulse to find a mate – a match – for your Veela.”

Draco glared at his likeness in the mirror.  An unexpected feeling of bitterness settled in the pit of his stomach.

“Perhaps you may not exhibit any other traits, Draco,” his mother said hopefully.  “Perhaps you only must live with the wings, which aren’t dreadful.  They’re quite magnificent to look at.  You certainly look more imposing than your peers.”

He tried to summon a smile for his indulgent mother.

“Although,” Lucius said, “you may want to consider making those wings disappear on command.  Unless you plan on cutting holes out of your entire wardrobe.”

Draco groaned.  He was about to start concentrating on his wings when a sudden thought stopped him.  He looked at Lucius quizzically.

“Father?” said Draco.  “What Veela traits did you develop?  Fireballs?”

Lucius looked mortally affronted.  “Otherworldly good looks, son,” Lucius replied, looking down his patrician nose.  “Obviously.”

ooOOoo

It took him the rest of the weekend, but he was able to get enough control of the wings so that he could make them appear or vanish at will.  It wasn’t a pleasant experience.  The first time his body slurped – there was no better term for the sound or feel of it – the wings back into his shoulders, he nearly passed out again.

But after two days of practice, he was able to keep his wings to stay in…wherever they stayed, inside of him.  For the most part.

“What happened to you, Malfoy?” Hermione interrogated him as soon as he sat down at his desk on Monday morning.  “You just disappeared from your party.  I looked for you everywhere, and I asked almost everyone at that ball, but no one had seen you after our dance.”

“I didn’t feel well,” Draco said, flatly.  “So, I retired early from the party.”

“Oh,” Hermione said, looking rebuked.  “I thought that maybe…never mind.”

“What, Granger?” he asked, feeling irritated.  “Honestly, I’m not surprised you had time to notice that I was gone.  Was Zabini that dreary and lackluster that you had to find an excuse to talk to literally everyone else in the room, so you can get some decent conversation?”

“Leave Blaise out of this, Malfoy.  He has nothing to do with you vanishing in the middle of your ball,” she said, and added, quietly, as if to herself, “Apparently.”

He stood abruptly and slammed a fist onto his desk, his chest tightening at her quick defense of her date.  “Of course, it has nothing to do with Zabini.  Why should that wearisome, talentless, doltish, loutish—”

“Malfoy,” he heard her say in an incredulous tone, and he saw her point to something behind him.  He heard the ripping of his cloak before he registered the feeling of his wings violently erupt from his body.

Panicked, he did the first thing that came to mind and flicked his wand, leaving behind a dumbfounded Hermione as he Apparated home.

ooOOoo

Draco wasn’t surprised when his house elf informed him that Hermione was waiting in the drawing room.  He tried once more to withdraw his wings, but the stirring that afflicted his chest was still too significant.  After a few more tries, he gave up and went downstairs to greet his uninvited guest.  She was bound to find out sooner or later.

“Veela wings?” she asked in an astonished tone, as soon as he entered the room.  “How is that possible?”

He recounted what happened to him at the ball and repeated the story told him by his parents.  He watched as her face grow enlivened with curiosity.

“So, is it just the wings, or have you noticed other changes over the last few days?” she asked, keenly.  “Can you develop a beak as well?  What about the ability to dazzle others?  You know, that doesn’t usually happen with male Veelas, but seeing as you’re only cursed to exhibit Veela traits, and not actually have Veela genetics, you may—”

“I’ve only been a quasi-Veela for a few days, Granger, so I don’t know what other superpowers I may have,” Draco said, sharply.  She opened her mouth to speak, and he cut her off, knowing she was about to suggest a battery of tests.  “And, I’m not your bloody lab rat, so you can derail that train of thought immediately.”

She shut her mouth but continued to look at him inquisitively.

“What are you doing here, Granger?” he asked quietly.

Hermione set her mouth in a firm, thin line.  “My partner starts transforming before my eyes, and he runs back home to hide.  Where else would I go?”

“Your partner turns into a monster of a creature, and you run after him?  Your lack of self-preservation is astounding,” Draco derided.

“Malfoy,” she said in a warning tone.

He let out a defeated sigh.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this sooner?” she asked.  “When you disappeared from the ball, I thought that, maybe…”

He gave her a sharp look.  “What?”

Hermione’s face was flushed, but she met his gaze steadily.  “I thought that maybe you left because of Blaise.  Of me and Blaise.”

Draco took a step toward her.  “You thought I left my own party because I was jealous of Blaise Zabini?”

“All right, it sounds stupid when you say it.  Forget it, Malfoy,” she said dejectedly, and she started to turn around when he caught her arm.

“You’re right,” he quickly confessed before he could second-guess himself.  “Well, not about why I left the party, clearly, but of the other thing.  The jealousy thing.”

She stared at him, eyes wide with surprise at his admission.

“It was,” Draco said slowly, “unpleasant to see you with him.  Whenever I think of you two together, I get this ache in my chest, and I want to hunt him down and send him back to Italy.  In pieces.”

“A bit extreme, but okay,” she said, unevenly.  “What should we do about all this, then?”

He sighed bitterly and let go of her arm.  “Why should we do anything about it?  It might not even be real.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, brusquely.

“Veelas _mate_ ,” he spat out.  “They’re _compelled_ by magic to be with someone.  They don’t get to choose.”

She looked visibly upset.  “You’re saying, what you’re feeling for me isn’t real?  That it’s just another manifestation of a Veela trait?”

“I don’t know!” he said.  “I don’t know if this is really me, or if it’s the Veela.  And I don’t want you to be with me if it’s just the magic, Granger, it’s not—” he faltered.  “You deserve better than that.”

Hermione scoffed wryly.  “So, that’s it, then?  You just want to – what? – sweep our feelings under the rug and continue just being partners?  You’re not willing to try to work this out, at all?”

Draco looked at her with a mixture of guilt and hard-headedness.

“Right,” she sneered, and she turned to leave the room.

“Granger – “ he called out.  “Hermione.  I just – I don’t want to hurt you.  I hope you understand.”

Hermione looked back at him with a guarded look in her eyes he hadn’t seen in a long time.

“I’ll just see you at work,” she said firmly.  “Partner.”

ooOOoo

He forgot how it was between them when they were first assigned as partners.  He forgot how she could hide behind her intellect and high-handedness, and how she could wield her natural bossiness like a weapon.

When he returned to work the next day, she wasted no time in reminding him.

By Wednesday, their strictly professional air and stilted, impersonal dialogue only served to infuriate him.  By end of day on Friday, it had partially eaten away at his sanity.

He longed for her to talk to him again, to banter and tease, or to mock and yell.  He wanted her to cite exactly which DMLE regulations he was breaking when he worked in the field, and to pester him while he tried to finish his reports in the office.  He even missed the light physical abuse he suffered when he was within her arm’s reach, and the various projectiles she often threw at his head when he wasn’t.

It was four days of chill.  He knew he wouldn’t survive a fifth day.

He hunted for an item at the bottom of his wardrobe; he found it in the same place he stored it a year ago.  Then, he went to find her.

                ooOOoo

Draco was waiting outside of the Karaoke bar across from her flat.  He had been there for a few hours; as the night wore on, the songs became more desperate and the singers more tragic.  He was relieved when he saw her walk up to the steps of her flat.

He ran across the street, yelling, “Granger!”

She turned around warily, and said, “Malfoy, what are you—” Her gaze fell on his neck.  “You kept it?” she asked, amazed.

His hand went up to the red ascot.  “Of course.  Did you really think I had thrown it away?”

“Huh,” she said, as she took a step closer to him.  “You were right.  It really does look tacky.”

“ _Thank_ you,” he said, vindicated.

After a pause, she asked, “Why are you here?”

“I’m here to apologize.  I shouldn’t have turned you away like that.  We should have at least talked it out.”

She looked at him apprehensively. 

“Listen, Granger, this week has been one of the worst weeks of my life, and I think you know it’s not because I suddenly have a couple of extra body parts.”

A small smile formed on Hermione’s face.  “I’ve been thinking about you, too,” she said.  “And I understand your concerns about the ‘mate’ issue.  So, I read up on it, to see if you may be developing that trait.”

“All right, go on,” he said, not surprised that she had done her research. 

A pensive expression settled on her face as she started her analysis.  “Do you feel an instinct to protect me from anything you perceive as a threat?” she asked.

“We’ve been partners for a long time.  It’s second nature, by now, for me to feel protective over you,” he said, candidly.

“Do you feel possessive toward me?”

He looked at her in exasperation.   “I think, the whole Zabini matter should answer that one.”

“Right.  Though we should probably consider that you’re a Malfoy, and, thus, predisposed to be domineering,” she said, and he nodded in agreement.

She looked nervous, when she asked, “Do you have the urge to…bite me?”

“Bite you?” he considered, and his suddenly heated gaze fell on her lips.  “Most definitely.  Mark you?  I don’t know.  Maybe.  I’m not sure.”

He saw her swallow and her breathing, speed up.  “Oh.  Well.”

Draco smiled at her permissively.  “So, what do you think?  Are you the mate to my Veela?”

“Inconclusive,” she whispered. 

“What do you need to reach a diagnosis?” he asked huskily, as he sidled nearer.

“Empirical evidence,” she said, and she reached her arms around his neck and pulled him down for a searing kiss.

He tried to concentrate on everything at once – the softness of her lips on his, the hardness of her hipbones under his hands, the soft moaning he was sure she didn’t realize she was making.  He was overwhelmed.

They broke apart after several moments.  He was reeling from overstimulation, and, with his head still foggy, murmured, “’I Think I Love You.’”

“ _What?!_ ” she sputtered and leaned her upper body away to get a good look at his face.

Draco felt himself pale and quickly amended, “The song!  The one you had stuck in your head a few days ago.  I was going to tell you that I just spent hours haunting that Karaoke bar trying to find out that blasted song for you —"

“Oh, okay, good , because we’re just not _there_ , yet—”

“—Anyway, it was supposed to be a romantic gesture—bad timing, on my part— _bollocks_ —"

“—I mean, we just had our first kiss, and as far as kisses go, it was just okay—”

“ _What?!_ ” it was his turn to stammer.

“It was a fine enough kiss, Malf-uhrmf!”

He cut her off with another kiss, one in which he summoned all his passion into the muscles of his lips and tongue, and to his fingertips that clutched at her hair and lower back.  After a few more moments, he let her go.

She fought to catch her breath.  “I would like to rescind my previous statement,” she said, roughly.

He laughed softly, and then asked, in a more serious tone, “Are you certain you’re okay with not knowing for sure?  If this,” he gestured in the small space between their bodies, “is really us?  Or if it’s the magic?”

“Us or magic?  Do they have to be mutually exclusive?” she asked. 

He shook his head in wonder.

“Anyway, don’t worry about me, I can take care of myself,” she said.  “If you break my heart, just remember: I’m an Auror.  I know Kung Fu.”

He rolled his eyes.  “We were never trained in Kung Fu—”

“ _Please_ shut up,” she said, and she helped him by pulling his face down to hers once more.

They were setting a comfortable rhythm when he heard the ripping of expensive clothing on his back.

“Bloody hell,” he murmured onto her lips, but neither stopped as a pair of silver wings encompassed them both.

**_FIN_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this short story – I’d appreciate your reviews!  
> If you like this story, please check out my other Dramione fics: “Shallow Draco,” and “Mrs. Azkaban.”

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Thank you for reading! I’d appreciate your reviews!


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